Of bread, love and courage: a baker's son tribute
by MJElliot
Summary: A collection of moments from Peeta's life.
1. First day of school

**First day of school**

**Peeta Mellark, 5 years old**

"Wake up you lazy boy!" Mama's angry with me again. I have to get up early today because it is the first day of school, but I don't want to go. I want to sleep longer because it is raining outside and I don't like the rain. It's cold and the lightning is so loud it makes me scared.

But mama doesn't care. She comes into my room, pulls off the covers and pulls me to my feet so fast that I wonder if she doesn't have some magical power, like in the stories Delly's mommy tells us. She's hurting my arm but I don't tell her, because I know she will not care. Sometimes I think mama wants to see me hurting.

She starts to dress me for school. I'm going to wear Ryan's blue shirt and that makes me happy. I always liked that shirt. It has an orange pattern and it makes me think about when the sun sets in summer. Ryan is two years older than me and he looks very much like mama. He already left for school with Nan. He is our oldest brother. His name is actually Brednan, but I call him Nan because I think it suits him better. He is very tall and helps out in the bakery because my father says he is a grown up now. I was supposed to go with them but now I am late and either mama or papa will have to take me.

Mama combs my hair and complains, as usual, that it is always getting in my eyes. I like it like this. I think I look like my father since we are the only ones to have yellow hair. Mama and Ryan and Nan have darker hair. Not brown like the poor kids, but darker than mine and papa's. Mama got mad when I said this and told me we are all _blondes, _because we are merchants not dirty workers like the poor people with brown hair.

Mama is very angry because I am so late and pulls me by the ear. This is something she does sometimes when I don't behave. I am not crying anymore when she does it, because papa told me that only little boys cry when they are hurt. And I am a big boy now, because I have to go to school.

When we get downstairs I see papa already dressed waiting by the door. I am very happy that he will take me because I have a tummy ache and I know mama will only get more upset if I tell her about it.

Papa's hands are so big and warm, it's like I'm holding hands with bread that he pulled out from the oven. I can't wait to grow up to help him and Nan in the store. I tell him my tummy aches and he says it's because I am nervous about my first day of school. He says people sometimes feel pain when they are emotional. He tells me I don't need to be afraid because I am smart and I will make new friends there. I like making new friends and I remember that Delly will also be there because she starts school today too. I like Delly. She is our neighbor and we play together all the time.

There are many people in the school yard. Some grownups but many children and I notice that most of them have brown hair. They all must be poor because mama said brown haired people are dirty and poor. I can't see Delly so I ask papa to stay a bit longer. He smiles down at me and doesn't let go of my hand. The teacher asked us to get in line so she could take us inside and papa kneels down to give me a hug. And then he says:

"See that little girl?" pointing to a little girl in a red dress. I can only see her back but I see she has brown hair tied up in two braids. I think she is very pretty because I never saw girls wear their hair like that.

"I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner" papa continues. I cannot believe it. Papa is so handsome and kind. And the coal miners are so dirty and poor. So I say

"A coal miner? Why did she want a coal miner if she could've had you?"

Papa looks at the girl again and smiles, but his eyes are sad. Maybe his tummy hurts because he is emotional.

"Because when he sings ... even the birds stop to listen." I don't believe that. Birds never stop singing only when they fly. And sometimes they sing when they fly too.

Our first class is music assembly. I am sitting with Delly and Anton and Ivy and Madge who is very shy and never looks at you when she talks to you. The teacher asks us if we know the Valley Song. I don't know it because neither mama nor papa taught us any songs. But I see a hand shooting up in the row in front of me, and it's dressed in the same red dress papa showed me earlier.

"What's your name, dear" the teacher asks the little girl.

"Katnis Everdeen" she says as she stands up. Now that we are close I see she is very short and that she is very pretty. Her skin is dark compared to mine, but not dirty like mama said. And she has very pretty eyes. They are grey like the sky when there is a snow storm coming. And I like the snow so very much.

"Can you sing it for us, Katniss?" the teacher asks again. She seems like a very nice lady.

Katniss nods so fast her braids bounce on her shoulders and it reminds me of the little puppy I found once in the yard, that wiggled its tail when I played with it. Then she starts to sing. I didn't believe papa when he told me about Katniss' father, but now I understand. Her voice is so strong and clear, so beautiful. I never heard anything so beautiful- not from a person, not form a bird. I didn't know the song before, but now I am sure I will never forget it. The way she sings it, if I close my eyes and shut them tight, I can see the valley filled with grass and flowers of all colors; I can see the sky going from blue to orange as the sun sets after a warm summer rain.

When she stops singing, we are all very quiet. Even outside the window I feel like the wind has stopped blowing. And then I hear so many tiny voices outside the window- mockingjays my father said they are called- repeating her song. She turns her head towards the window and because it is right behind me, for a moment she looks right at me.

I feel a little pain in my chest- not hard like the tummy ache I've had this morning, but more like when papa or Nan hug me too close. I'm not worried because I remember papa's words: people sometimes feel pain in their hearts when they love something.


	2. Cake in the window

**Cake in the window**

**Peeta Mellark, age 15**

"I love you, Katniss". My voice is rough and awkward, and my eyes are too big and too bright above my flaming red cheeks. I frown at my distorted imagine smiling clumsily at me back from my father's shaving mirror. It's never going to work. Not if I approach her like… like a mumbling idiot. I feel my ears burning as shame engulfs me. She'd probably just laugh in my face. Or she'll bless me with one of her trademark scowls.

I sigh and turn my back at the unforgiving mirror. Maybe I should talk to her first, about something else. Anything else but my feelings for her.

I let myself fall on the side of my bed, cradling my head in my hands. What could I possibly talk to her about?

The shop? Why would she care about that- she never comes in anyway. Our customers are usually Peackeepers and rarely other merchants.

Her hunting? Yeah cause that's going to be easy- talking openly about something that could get her thrown in prison any day. Or worse.

The day I threw her the bread? I'm sure that will go straight to her heart, her being so proud and all.

Homework...?

I sigh into my hands as I hear my mother cursing for me to get down stairs. Well, at least I have all summer to think about what I'm going to tell her when we meet up for the school start in September.

I make my way downstairs bracing for my mother's harsh words. I don't mind working in the bakery. On the contrary, I love baking.

I love how I can mix flour, east and water- such simple, unremarkable ingredients and turn them into something most people can't live without.

I love the smell of the rising dough because it makes me think of family, gathered around the hearth on a cold, winter night, sharing stories of kindness and love in the flickering light of the fire..

I love kneading the dough. Pulling and twisting the soft, pliable mass, watching it yield under my touch, molding it into the shapes of my imagination.

What I don't like is working with my mother. She's so surly and cold and always finds something to bicker about. I know I have no right to think about her like that. She is my mother after all. She carried me in her belly for nine months, she fed me and dressed me and rocked me to sleep when I cried. But she also hit me and humiliated me and pushed me away just because she wasn't in a good mood that day. I know life isn't easy, even for us who live in town and do work that allows us to at least put food on the table. I know she probably lost her patience waiting, hoping that things would get better. I just wish sometime, just sometimes, she had a kind word to say.

"So you finally decided to show," she spits when she sees me and I risk a fleeting glance at the clock on the wall, which says I'm actually on time. She always starts work before anyone else. I don't understand why though, since every time I work with dad or any of my brothers, we manage to get everything done even if we start an hour later than her.

"I'm sorry, mom," I answer back, trying a shy smile in her direction. We're going to be here all day and it would make things easier if we started on the right foot.

"Sorry won't put food on the table," she retorts, her voice turning imperceptible softer, then turns her back at me and continues working on the batter. It's the mayor's birthday today and we have a cake order. It's not often that we get those, but when we do, we make more and put some in the window, for the very few people who actually have money to buy them. Maybe it's not going to be such a bad day after all, if I get to decorate my cakes.

See, I love baking, but I love painting even more, and this is the only way I can do it outside school. Yes, I do draw in the little spare time that I have, using pieces of coal and old scraps of paper—the best of my sketches proudly padding the walls of the tiny nook I now call my own. But black and white smudges can't compare to the amazing food coloring we receive on special order from the Capitol. I can only imagine what I could do if I worked in one of the bakeries in the Capitol…but of course these thoughts are pointless. If I'm lucky, I'm going to live my life here, in this sooty excuse for a district. Only if I'm lucky. I'm careless enough to snort at the irony of the statement and mom readily rewards me with a slap on the back of my head and deep voice reminder that if I have time to laugh I'm probably not doing the work I'm supposed to. So I sigh and get back to molding the dough.

By noon we're almost done with baking our loaves, the mayor's cake is done and quite decently wrapped in a brown cardboard box and I also got two other cakes ready to put on display. I straighten my back and can't help but look at them one more time before some random peacekeeper comes in and buys them away. And then, like that, my heart drops. A tiny girl, with long, blond braids is practically glued to the window. Her eyes are bright blue and the summer heat air put a tint of rose on her cheeks, turning them a lovely hue, just like the petals of the flower she is named after.

Her eyes are full of wonder, but I know she will not come in to the bakery. I remember the tiny cake I made out of the leftover sponge cake and scraping of filling. I was meaning to give it to mother, as I usually do when we work together in the shop. It seems to put her in a better mood, so I risk it, even if it is illegal.

And I just know that today I have to give it to Prim. I _want_ to give it to her; maybe this way I can atone for two loaves of bread I threw at her sister on a rainy winter day. I wrap the funny shaped blob in a piece of cloth and I quietly turn towards the front door, not caring that this move will probably bring my mother's wrath down on my head.

I freeze on the spot. Katniss is at her sister's side in front of the window, and I feel all my aplomb drain out of me like rainwater in the gutter. She shows nothing of her sister pleasure at the sight of my cakes, her face hard as stone and I can't help but feel disappointed.

Prim doesn't ask for cake, like any other kid her age would have. She just seems content with admiring them from a distance. I watch Katniss put one arm around her little sister's shoulder and I see her expression soften as she leans in and whispers something in Prim's ear, making her giggle. Then she turns around and leaves. Prim gives another long look at the cakes then locks eyes with me, gives me a broad smile and an inconspicuous thumbs up, then turns away to follow her sister.

And here I still am, rooted on the spot, like the coward that I am, the tiny cake softening in my palm.


	3. Nightmare

**Nightmare**

**Peeta Mellark, age 16**

The dream comes back every so often- usually more often as the Reaping day draws near. And every time it does, it's the same, with small variations in color and length.

It's reaping day. I know this as soon as I see the rows of people pouring in the streets, converging to the spot in the middle of town- the main square. I can't help it as I get pulled in by the crowd, pushed and prodded so there is no way to move but forward. I try to get away, pushing against the people flanking me, elbowing them as they get closer, shouting at them to let me pass. But all they do is to move closer until I can barely put one leg in front of the other. I feel like I'm drowning in this sea of people, the fear that starts building in my chest enhancing the awful feeling.

And then we suddenly come to a stop. Everything is quiet except the clonk-clock of high-heeled shoes on cobbled floor. They sound closer and closer, a sense of approaching doom in their uniformity.

By now fear has given way to full-fledged panic, and I try to fight my way out of the unyielding crowd. This is usually the time when I notice the people are faceless. They're all different shapes and sizes but their faces are like skin-colored canvases, with no features drawn on them. I try to scream, but my chest won't help me- it's unmoving like the faceless statues that surround me, it's only purpose now being to cage my booming heart, which threatens to break out any moment.

I see the stage in front of me it's filled with white shapes holding guns- a peacekeeper firing squad. A shrill voice fills my dream, high, piercing and horribly amused, as it speaks the dreadful capitol saying "_Happy hunger games and may the odds be ever in your favor!_" I'm frantic now. I launch myself at the things around me. Punching, twisting, shoving, scratching. But everything I do is useless. It's like I'm trapped in a mass of dough- soft, deceitfully yielding and mercilessly flexible. And then I hear my name being called out in the same terrible voice and I realize there is no use in fighting any more.

I have been reaped. I am going to die.

And just like that, the shapes around me dissolve into nothing and I am left standing alone in the middle of the main square, peacekeeper guns trailed on my heart.

This is how the dream usually goes.

Not tonight, though. Tonight the cold capitol voice speaks out a name different from my own. The one name I dread being called out more than my own- Katniss Everdeen. I look around wildly, trying to find her among the slowly receding shapes. No no no no no…my numb mind can't think of anything else except that this _can't_ happen. Not to her.

I finally see her on the other side of the square. She's so tiny and thin and almost hunched over…like that time I found her in the rain, behind my parents' bakery. She looks at me with those gray eyes of hers, eyes that never met mine in real life for more than fleeting glances. I see the pain on her face, the sorrow the despair and I can almost feel the smell of rain and burned bread mixed with mud. I'm over powered by a sense of guilt. I never should have acted like that. I should have been brave- like her- and handed her the bread.

Brave…She can't die! I won't let her.

"I volunteer!" I shout with all my strength but the sound is trapped in my head. Nothing comes out from my frantically moving lips. Her eyes are still locked with mine, pleading, asking for my help, help that I am so willing but can't give as I hear the guns being cocked somewhere to my left.

She then turns away from me, towards the sound, facing the stage and her imminent death. She doesn't cry. Instead, she straightens her back and lifts her chin as if defying the shooting squad aiming at her.

I jerk awake, with sounds of gunshots booming in my ears. Or maybe it's just the heart pounding in my chest and my hand and my ears.

I always wake up sweaty and scared, but this time I can taste something else mixed in with the wetness on my face, something bitter and I realize that this time I was crying.

I try to calm myself down. It was just a dream, I tell myself. Not real. Not real…but could be real.

My eyes pop open at the thought. Definitely could be real. She's from the Seam. She's fatherless. She almost starved to death once…She risks her life in more ways than one hunting in the forest beyond the fence. Why wouldn't she risk it in the Reaping? I have 5 slips this year and they seems like such impossible, insurmountable odds. How many times will her name be in this year? Ten, fifteen, twenty? I can't bring myself to go higher. What if she gets reaped this year? What if in a month's time she will get whisked away to the Capitol. What if in two month time her bloody, mangled body will come home in a wooden box? I will never get a chance to talk to her. To apologize. To tell her how amazing she is, how beautiful and brave, and how I admire her for that. How, for the last almost 11 years, I have been following her every move, cherish her every word, how many rare they turned out to be…praying for one of her smiles…

I have to talk to her. Tomorrow, at school, I will go up to her and tell her…

Tell her what? What could I possibly say to her? I, a merchant boy who she probably forgot even existed, who threw bread at her one day like he would throw it to the pigs, who knows nothing about her, really, except for what he pieced together over the years, from stolen glances at school, or fragments of stories other people told about her.

Her pleading look from my dream is burned behind my eyelids and I know it will keep hunting the nights that will come. And just like that I realize it doesn't matter what I say to her; it can be something related to homework, or the squirrel she sold my father last Sunday, or her sister's perfect goat cheese that I've had for breakfast.

I'm good with words. I'm good with people. I will figure something out. In any case, tomorrow is the day when I will finally talk to Katniss Everdeen.


End file.
